


Ecchymosis

by gentlemanofquality



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Biting, Bruises, Dom/sub, Foreplay, Handcuffs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marcus tries his best, Safewords, Sherlock is a little brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlemanofquality/pseuds/gentlemanofquality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>marcus and sherlock finally get down to business</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ecchymosis

As he struggles to calm his racing thoughts, Sherlock reflects that this not unlike a dream – Marcus’ fingers digging into his sides, his mouth leaving bruises between the intricate lines running over Sherlock’s shoulder. But there’s no way that a dream could cause sensations of this _intensity._

Sherlock knows, of course, that pleasure, like pain, is in the mind – which is one of the reasons why he’s so fond of mixing the two – but the comparison of _real_ sensation to _imagined_ is so stark and so clear, so black and white in his mind, that he could never mistake one for the other; and he also knows that he will not be able to recapture this, no matter how well he commits it to memory. So instead he resolves not to think at all. Which would be hard enough even if he wasn’t, you know, him.

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his mouth open, and his hands bound behind his back, with Marcus settled solidly over his thighs. The detective has already stripped off Sherlock’s ratty old t-shirt but remains fully clothed himself, apart from his jacket, which Sherlock coaxed off in the entryway to Bell’s apartment before muttering “your handcuffs, if you would,” into Marcus’ ear. Marcus, of course, is not actually using _his_ handcuffs, Holmes’ attempts to pickpocket him be damned, but he did pull out a different pair from his dresser when they got to his bedroom.  These have Velcro and extra cushioning and he clearly paid too much for them online. Sherlock feels far too comfortable in them, but supposes that he ought to humor Marcus, who is, after all, not as experienced in these matters as he- _fuck!_

Marcus pulls back, his expression somewhere between concerned and amused. “Too much?” Sherlock pushes back from the wall to try and get his tongue back into Marcus’ mouth. Marcus pulls back, now smiling fully. “I keep forgetting, you like that scene, don’t you?” He darts his head down to bite down hard on the flesh of Sherlock’s neck once more, and Sherlock can feel the vibration of his laughter run down him from head to foot.

Sherlock groans impatiently and struggles half-heartedly against the cuffs. “You’re a detective; you figure it out!”

“Do you ever shut up?” Marcus traces his hands up Sherlock’s chest to press lightly against his throat, wrists resting on pectorals and nails scratching ever so slightly against his rapid pulse. Sherlock shudders and tips his head back.

“Why, is my talking bothering you?” Sherlock grins his best insidious grin above Bell’s field of vision. “Do you want me to shut up- _mm!_ ”

Marcus presses his palms flat against Sherlock’s chest as he kisses him with intensity, wet and messy and with just the right amount of teeth against lip and brushing stubble and tongues gliding against tongues and Sherlock is pulling against the cuffs and panting into Marcus’ mouth as Marcus begins to tug his jeans down. And yet it still isn’t enough. He needs the pinch of metal at his wrists, he wants Marcus to do more than just touch him and kiss him, he’s desperate for Bell to _hurry_ the _fuck_ up and goddamn _dominate_ him.

Marcus, however, is clearly intent on keeping things simple. Maybe a little biting, some handcuffs he bought when he inevitably learned that the man he was intent of fucking was a textbook Sub, but nothing more. Sherlock supposes that he should be content with that. After all, it may not be suspension  and leashes, but so far it’s pretty damn good, and definitely better than nothing.

Marcus pulls back, their seated position finally losing its value as an efficient vehicle for making out. “Can we, uh, get horizontal here?”

Sherlock bites his lip, feeling the flush spread down from his cheeks to his chest. “ _Could_ we?”

Marcus slides his hands under Sherlock’s backside and pulls him forward. Unfortunately for them both, Sherlock’s hands remain behind his back and become an impediment between him and the bed.

“Shit, uh-” Marcus rests back, onto the Brit’s calves, and rubs the heel of his hand against his temples. “Wait, how do we…”

Sherlock growls angrily: “Come on! It’s _fine_ , just get on with it already!” His hips jump upwards, the muscles in his abdomen briefly standing out. His jeans are at mid-thigh and his boxers are white with a black-and-yellow bee pattern. Bell suddenly feels guilty.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Sherlock-”

“You’re rather missing the _point_ , Marcus!” Sherlock snaps, beginning to pout. “I’m part of ‘that scene’, remember? Pain ‘does it for me’ and so forth?”

Marcus frowns. “Still, though. There are rules and safety guidelines for… stuff like this, right? Shouldn’t we do that first?”

“Please!” Sherlock scoffs “If I thought you’d _actually_ Dom me I’d’ve brought it up ages ago! This is just light bondage!” He looks up expectantly, twisted all wrong under the other man’s hands. Marcus just looks at him, frown deepening. Unable to wait for a response, Sherlock continues: “Fine! We’ll have a safe word. Mine will be Apis Mellifera, and yours will be…?”

Marcus doesn’t answer. Instead he pulls his pillow over from the head of the bed and positions it under Sherlock’s head so he isn’t pressing against his own arms too badly. Looking over his handiwork, he asks: “Can’t I just reposition the cuffs?”

“Fuck, _fine_!” Sherlock fumes. Of his own volition, he begins turning over. Marcus moves so he can get on his stomach, and, when he’s done so, unhooks the cuffs. Sherlock immediately stretches his arms into a comfortable position above his head and looks expectantly at Bell. Marcus rolls his eyes.

“Alright, alright! Jesus…”

As Marcus redoes the cuffs, Sherlock asks him again what his safe word is.

“Uh… dramaturgy?”

Sherlock shoots him an inquisitive look. “So you’ve retained an interest in theatre since high school, then?” he asks conversationally, lying in perfect repose under Marcus’ thighs. Marcus shrugs off the question and runs his fingers over Sherlock’s tattoos, blunt nails scraping deliciously against sensitized skin. Sherlock gets the message – words are no longer the priority. Him speaking is merely going to delay the most important thing which is to get Marcus to touch him _more_ and _harder_ and _here_ and _there_ and fucking _everywhere_.

Marcus presses his lips against Sherlock’s neck and slides his hand between his legs. The other man takes a shuddering breath and pushes up to meet his touch. Bell bites down lightly, sucks, lets aggrieved skin and muscle go, feels Sherlock excited beneath him. He smiles.

 

 

The next day, Sherlock comes to the precinct without a scarf, bruises dark and clear on his neck under stubble and black ink. He says nothing about it, but gives Marcus a very meaningful look when he first sees him. He also refers to Bell very loudly as “surprisingly talented”. Joan seems completely unfazed, though she does give him a sympathetic glance at that comment.

The whole precinct knows, they _have_ to.

Marcus puts his head in his hands as Sherlock passes him just slightly too close on the way out, hoping against hope that Gregson won’t say anything to him about it. He doesn’t think he could live that down.

**Author's Note:**

> i ship these two sooo hard. but i jsut cant. WRITE anythign for thEM.. i tried.


End file.
